


The Tomb of Fairel

by fortune_cookie (orphan_account)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, Humor, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Romance, Semi-Public Blow Jobs, Slow Burn, archaeology AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-11 21:58:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5643346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/fortune_cookie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shelved for the foreseeable future, sorry :></p><p>Dorian is a professor of archaeology taking a semester off to help uncover an ancient thaig. After joining the expedition with low expectations, he discovers more in the sand than broken artifacts. He soon finds himself drawn to the strange mercenary captain with a curious past, while trying to uncover the secrets the dwarves left behind.</p><p>(I'm so sorry I never updated this. *buries self in sand* Some day... Some day... I still love the idea.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chasing Nugs

Three days in the Hissing Wastes, and Dorian was already starting to regret his decision to come. If he had only stayed on as an assistant professor in Orlais, he would be enjoying the lovely fall weather now; perhaps enjoying a nice profiterole on the sunlit patio of some quaint café in Val Royeaux. Instead, he was ass-deep in sand and becoming closely acquainted with all sorts of small, unpleasant creatures that liked to creep into one’s sleeping bag in the middle of the night. Drawn to body heat, he supposed.

Dorian kept to himself for the most part. During the nights, he would retire to his tent while the rest of the expedition took their evening meal by the fire and shared stories of past adventures. When he was working at the dig site, he would talk to Varric or the other archaeologists as needed, but he rarely went out of his way to make small talk or connect with them. This was a job, and there was no point in making friends when he would only be around for a semester. Dorian had never been very good at keeping in touch with anyone but Felix anyway.

Now, he was sweating in the hot sun, carefully unearthing remnants of the formerly-lost dwarven thaig of Kal Repartha. At least, that was what they believed it to be. Varric was the expert on Dwarven history from before the First Blight. A famed historical novelist, the dwarf had eventually done so much research that he became an expert in his own right. According to some of the people Dorian knew in the academic community, the novelist had used his literary clout to get in on a few digs like this one. Something about fulfilling a childhood dream.

Still, Dorian had to admit that having the dwarf around wasn’t half-bad. He seemed a decent sort of fellow, and always kept things interesting. He was definitely good for a joke. In any case, the leader of the expedition, Lavellan, kept everything running smoothly. Famed novelist or no, the elf didn’t seem willing to take nonsense from anyone. Dorian respected that.

Although he respected Lavellan, he didn’t much appreciate the task the elf had set him to. He was buried to his ankles in sand, brushing off broken shards of dwarven pottery with a paintbrush. Here he was, a respected Tevinter mage and professor of archaeology, and he was stuck cleaning off some dead dwarf’s broken china. Not even the good stuff. This was clearly back-up dinnerware, if the ugly pattern of painted nugs chasing a dwarven maiden around the edge of the plate was anything to go by. Dorian sighed heavily and picked another grain of sand from a long crack in the plate.

“Everything okay there, Sparkler?” It was Varric, from his perch on a nearby platform. The dwarf was doing some work of his own— carefully restoring the artwork on some recovered tiles by filling in the cracks to keep them from fragmenting further. It was tedious work, but Varric seemed to take to it with good humor. He flashed a grin at the mage.

Dorian shrugged his shoulder delicately, careful not to knock over his work.

“Oh, you know me. I’m just trying not to get too excited over here by the prospect of incredibly ugly plate china. I don’t want to faint from the exhilaration, you know.” He tried to hold back a smirk, but couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth from twitching up. He did so enjoy these little moments of banter with Varric, although they were few and far between.

“And how are you doing over there?” he asked in return. “Enjoying your tilework? What are those from, exactly— some dwarven lord’s bathroom floor?”

Varric chuckled, a low, warm sound. He shook his head and set the tiles down gently on the cloth he had laid out on the ground.

“Something like that.” He looked up at Dorian, suddenly appearing thoughtful. “Hey, big guy. It’s nearly noon. You wanna take a break and get something to eat at the canteen?”

He didn’t have to ask twice. Dorian set his work down as well— carefully staking off the area so no one would disturb it.

The canteen was packed full so close to lunch time. Both archaeologists and members of the mercenary guild that protected them filled the tent and tables within, leaving very little space to move. It was claustrophobic, and Dorian nearly gave into the urge to run back out the front, but the smell of hot food got to him in the end. He dutifully followed Varric to the low table covered in chafing dishes full of all sorts of food. A portable camp kitchen was set up behind it, with several members of the expedition working to cook for the group. Dorian recognized one of them as the mercenary medic, a quiet fellow. Following Varric’s lead, he picked up a brightly-colored plastic tray and made his way down the line.

Servers wearing aprons and plastic gloves spooned out portions of cooked vegetables and meat, along with some sort of red, jelly-like substance that might have been a stew. It didn’t look entirely appetizing, but the smell was making Dorian’s mouth water.

He made his way to the end of the line, only to find himself staring up at the largest man he had ever seen. Well, not quite a man. It was a qunari, several heads taller than Dorian and nearly three times as broad at the least. He wore an eyepatch, a broad grin on his face, and Andraste help him if he wasn’t the most glorious thing Dorian had ever seen. The mage felt a heat bloom under his skin that had nothing to do with the desert climate. He stood there, blankly holding his tray out and staring, until he felt a sharp pain in his ribs. Varric was elbowing him to get his attention.

“Sparkler! Come on.” Dorian blinked, suddenly feeling very foolish.  He looked up at the qunari with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “It’s terribly loud in here. What did you say?”

The man laughed, a wonderful, booming noise, and held up the spoon he was holding full of that jelly-like substance. “Did you want the stew?”

He nodded in reply, although he was not entirely sure he _did_ want the stew, and gave the man behind the counter a smile before following after Varric to find somewhere to sit.

If the Dwarf had noticed anything, and Dorian was sure he did, there were no comments on the matter. Plenty of nudges and winks, but nothing explicitly stated. It wasn’t until the tent had nearly cleared out, and most of the people at their table were gone, that Varric finally decided to say something.

“So, Sparkler.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. Well. It looked like that nickname wasn’t going away any time soon.

“Mh-hm,” he replied.

“You got a thing for that big guy over there?” the dwarf asked.

After a moment’s consideration, Dorian shrugged. It wasn’t quite an affirmation, but it was enough for Varric. He grinned, and pointed one short finger over toward the kitchen area.

“Good. Because it looks like he’s on his way over here right now.”

Dorian whirled around in his seat to see exactly that. Indeed, the Qunari was headed right for them. He must have finished his shift, as he was untying his apron as he made his way toward the two.

“Hey, there.” He slid into the seat next to Dorian, and the mage tried to ignore the sudden feeling of heat that grew in his chest. He could feel one of the bigger man’s thighs pressing against his. 

“Just thought I’d see if you two liked the stew or not. Stitches over there says this batch wasn’t my best, but I think he's just being difficult.” The Qunari jerked his thumb back to gesture at the other man behind the counter. Dorian chuckled, and pointed one of his own slim fingers to his empty tray.

“Despite the consistency, it was quite tasty.” he admitted. Varric nodded, but not before shooting a covert wink Dorian’s way.

The Qunari gave them both a broad grin and turned to face Dorian on the bench. He held out one huge hand, presumably for Dorian to shake.

“Glad to hear it! I’m the Iron Bull, by the way. Or just Bull, if you like. Captain of the Chargers, and occasional chef.”

A grumble from Stitches put the latter part of that in question, but Dorian was more than happy to return the handshake. Bull’s grip was firm, and his skin was warm against Dorian’s own.

“Dorian Pavus, at your service. And this is Varric Tethras.” Bull let go of Dorian’s hand and turned to look at the dwarf, his eyes lighting up. He grinned, thrusting his hand out for Varric to shake.

“Oh! You wrote those books, right?”

Varric shrugged his shoulder and gave Bull’s hand a hearty shake. “Novels, but yes. I take it you’re a fan?”

Bull nodded. “I’ve read a few of them. Not bad stuff.” With the formalities over, he turned back to Dorian. There was something strange in his expression, and Dorian had the odd feeling that he didn't actually come over just to ask them about the stew.

“You know, I don't think I've ever seen you at the campfire," said Bull. "You should stop by tonight and meet the Chargers. It's a good time. We tell stories about some of our old jobs. I’ll pour you a proper drink, and none of that bootleg stuff either.”

Dorian tilted his head, pretending to consider it. Although he didn’t relish the thought of spending time around the rest of the company, he was certainly flattered by the offer. He nodded, holding out his hand again for Bull to shake.

“You’ve got a deal,” he grinned. Well, at least it would prove to be an interesting night.


	2. You, Me, and the Desert Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian takes Bull up on his offer, and realizes he might be in over his head.

The desert nights were cold, but the blazing fire kept away the chill. The orange glow heated Dorian’s face—basking him in pleasant warmth. He pulled at the edge of his cloak and leaned back on the log he was using as a seat. He had always enjoyed the smell of a good fire: the spicy, salt-musk of burning wood and ash in the air. He could sometimes smell wisps of it in the air when he was in his tent, but not so often as he would like. Tonight was a rare treat in that respect.

Many of the other members of the company were gathered around the fire too. Some of the mercenaries and archaeologists chatted with each other over leftovers re-heated on tin camp plates. Although there were no trees around to sharpen sticks, some of the more enterprising mercenaries were using their swords to toast marshmallows.

Dorian tried not to feel a little nauseous at the thought. In the desert, they used “Gella”, the sun-dried dung of horses, cows or other animals as the fuel source for their fires. Although it was used for cooking, Dorian wouldn’t have roasted anything directly over it.

He poked at his own magically-warmed food with his fork and tried not to let the nerves he was feeling show on his face. He was sitting on an old, dead log that had been repurposed into a bench—pressed between Bull and another one of the mercenaries.

A young man with a Tevinter accent, who Dorian believed to be Bull’s lieutenant or second-in-command, sat directly across from them. He had finished his food already, and moved on to more alcoholic pursuits. Currently, he held a bottle of rum in one hand, and was gesturing wildly with the other as he told a rousing tale. One of their company’s many misadventures, if Dorian was hearing correctly.

“’Ere we thought the chief was off searchin’ for clues. But ‘e was actually off seducin’ the Warlord’s daughter! And there the chief was, naked as the day ‘e was born, nothing but a little satin pillow to cover ‘is bits.”

The lieutenant doubled over, barely able to choke out the words through gales of laughter.

“So we run in, the warlord comes in, and the ‘e was so stunned, ‘e didn’t even flinch when the chief clapped ‘im in irons!”

The whole group burst into laughter at that. Even the ones that looked like they could kill a man with a flick of their wrist.

Dorian twisted in his seat, grinning up at Bull with one eyebrow raised.

“Nothing but a satin pillow? I’m surprised you didn’t send the poor man into shock. Did he faint from the sight of it?”

Bull shrugged one massive shoulder and gave Dorian an easy-going smile of his own. Although the gesture was friendly enough, there was something devilish hidden behind it. A promise of things to come, perhaps.

“Yeah, well. If I had known how things were going to turn out that day, I would have packed an extra pair of pants. But hindsight is funny like that.”

He chuckled, the sound low and gravelly in his throat. It was lovely, and Dorian’s stomach grew warm at the sound. Something else grew warm too. And a little stiff. Dorian quickly set his dinner plate on his lap, shifting his legs just so. As he did, Bull spread his legs out a little more to take advantage of the room, and Dorian became startlingly aware of the spot where his leg pressed up against Bull’s thigh.  

Fortunately, Dorian had plenty of experience dealing with misdirection attention away from himself in awkward situations. He shrugged, smiled, and laughed at Bull’s joke.

“Yes. I’m sure there are many situations one could fix by simply carrying a second pair of trousers around. Not that I can think of them offhand.”

Bull smiled down at Dorian. For a moment, he looked like he was going to say something, but the man sitting across from them interjected.

“Oi. Dorian, right?”

Yes, that was definitely a Tevinter accent. Thick, although it was washed-out; as though he has spent some time away from his homeland. Dorian nodded. Carefully positioning his robes to hide the effect Bull had on his body, he leaned forward and held out a hand for the man to shake.

“That’s me. Dorian Pavus, at your service.”

The man, Bull’s lieutenant, returned the gesture with a firm grip and a grin.

“Cremisius Aclassi. Call me Krem.” He sat back, and gave Dorian a once-over.

 “You’ve done this sort of thing before, right? You must have some pretty crazy stories of your own.”

That was his cue to share, he supposed. He leaned forward on the log— glancing up at Bull for a moment to check and see if the Qunari was listening. He wasn’t disappointed. Bull was watching Dorian with rapt attention, clearly waiting for him to speak. Well then. Dorian was never one to let down a willing audience.

“Oh, yes. Although I’m not sure I have anything that could quite match up to arresting a warlord stark naked.”

That drew another gale of laughter from the group, and a half-hearted protest from the mercenary captain.  _“I had a pillow covering all the important parts!”_

Dorian continued, trying not to smirk. “I really don’t have any good stories. Before I became a professor, I sold my services as a mage, tutor, and curse-breaker in Val Royeaux for a few years after my father kicked me out of the house. But it was mostly removing minor curses on ugly antique jewelry for lonely widows.” He shrugged a shoulder. “It was a living.”

Krem looked disappointed that Dorian didn’t have a story to tell, but he didn’t press. Instead, he turned back to the group and struck up another conversation. Suddenly, something uncomfortable lodged in Dorian’s chest. He felt quite out of place among this group of easy-going mercenaries. The rest of the group was mostly made of academics, and few of them had turned up to socialize around the fire. He supposed they were probably more like him—preferring to keep to themselves during the evenings.

He sighed and quickly stood up from his seat. “Well,” he plastered an easy grin on his face, hoping to hide the discomfort he felt. “This has been lovely, but I should really get my beauty sleep. Have a good night, everyone.”

Bull gave him an odd look; not quite confusion, but something else. It was as though Dorian was a puzzle just begging to be solved. He wasn’t sure whether he should be flattered or uncomfortable. Either way, he felt something like regret for leaving on such an unresolved note. So, Dorian leaned down under the guise of patting Bull on the back and whispered in his ear instead.

_“Thank you for inviting me. You’ll have to tell me more tales of your strange adventures some time.”_

He straightened up, gave Bull a firm slap on the back, and bid them all farewell. Before he left, however, he swore he could see a blush creeping up the Qunari’s cheeks.

_Well._

Normally, he would have taken the time to clean off his plate. But Dorian wasn’t in the mood to do anything but sleep. He set the tin plate down on one of the crates in his tent and began to strip. It was a long process, undoing each buckle and sliding the cloth and leather from his skin. The desert nights dipped into the low, cold temperatures, but Dorian’s sleeping bag was very well-insulated. He preferred not to wear anything at night, lest he overheat and wake up before it was time.

With a stifled yawn, he gave his cot a once-over for any unwelcome visitors, and crawled inside of his sleeping bag. It was a welcome comfort after such a long day of work. He curled up, tucking his knees against his stomach, and let the Fade claim him.

\-----

Dorian should have been used to the early mornings after years of teaching eight a.m. classes, but he still had trouble dragging himself away from his warm bed before the sun was fully above the horizon. It was a challenge, but eventually he sat up on his cot. He rifled through his steamer chest for a fresh set of clothes, and slipped into a pair of simple sandals suitable for a walk to the showers. When he found ones that were clean, he pulled on his pants from the day before and headed out into the camp.

Most of the expedition used the communal showers that had been set up. There were few ready sources of fresh water nearby, so they had most of theirs hauled in. Conservations was important, in that case. Most days, Dorian made do with a wet rub-down. Once a week, he took an honest to Andraste shower with real, running water. Sometimes, he would give in and use his magic to conjure the water needed for a bath.

There was a nice, secluded area hidden in a nearby rock face. It was almost a cave, although the top was open to the sky, letting in sunlight and heat. Inside, there was a nice, shallow impression in the rock that Dorian could fill with water and bathe in. He had to concede—sometimes it was nice to be a mage.

Today, he didn’t have time to make the half hour trip to the cave. Instead, he headed for the showers.

Without the sun’s light to heat them, the tanks would be cold. Dorian always hated cold showers. With some amount of care, he muttered a spell to light the boiler beneath the tanks and flipped the lever. Steaming water came pouring out of one of the rusted shower heads; orange and gritty at first, but running clear after a few seconds. He stepped under it with a sigh of near-bliss.

Cloth in hand, Dorian scrubbed vigorously at his skin. Water began to pool at his feet, filling the small basin too quickly to drain before it reached his ankles.

An unbidden, but not entirely unwelcome, image suddenly flashed through his mind. Bull, standing in front of him on the sun-warmed sand. Dorian let the fantasy progress, and Bull grinned—fingers slipping under the hem of his worn t-shirt. He pulled it over his head, revealing a gloriously bare chest. He let the shirt drop to the ground and his hands went straight for the zipper on his pants.

The stream of water slowly trickled to a stop as the automatic timer activated. Dorian didn’t care. The sun was starting to heat up the air now, but there was still no one else around yet. He opened his eyes for a moment to check, and closed them tight when he was satisfied the coast was clear.

Now, Dorian’s own hand drifted south. He rarely had time to indulge these days, with so much to do and so many people around. Now, he could take a moment to himself. He wrapped his fingers around his cock, now growing hard as the fantasy went on, and began to stroke out a steady rhythm.

Bull was fully naked now, and grinning at Dorian as though he knew some wonderful, dirty secret the mage had yet to discover. His good eye dragged down Dorian’s body, and the mage felt it just as strongly as though it had been those big hands instead.

The Qunari stepped into the shower and knelt before him. With a smirk, he leaned forward and gave the gold hoop that went through Dorian’s nipple a gentle tug.

Bull rolled the ring between his fingers before leaning forward to give it an experimental lick. Dorian moaned, and Bull suddenly stood—abandoning his chest in favor of something more… pressing.

A broad, calloused hand wrapped around both their lengths, and began to stroke. Dorian gasped again, his breath coming in short, shallow pants. His lungs burned for lack of oxygen, but he didn’t care. It felt better than anything he had experienced in a long time.

He was getting close now. He pressed the knuckles of his free hand between his teeth.

Bull leaned even closer. He pressed his face to Dorian’s shoulder, breathing in the mage’s scent with a contented sigh before biting down— hard. Dorian shuddered, hot release spilling over his hand.

He opened his eyes to find himself standing alone in the shower, hand covered in his own sticky release. The water was already off, and he could hear the sound of other people stirring as the sun rose fully over the horizon.

“Fasta vass!” he swore, softly. He leaned forward, quickly wiping away the evidence of what had happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will actually be a serious plot to this starting in the next chapter. It's not all pointless smut, I swear!


	3. Breaking Barriers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick update to prove that I'm still working on this, and that I'm not dead. Chapter two has also been edited and changed. Hopefully for the better.

“Do you think the dwarves that built this place knew that people like us would be digging it up centuries in the future?”

Varric was back at work, painstakingly tagging shards of tile. He and Dorian were working in one of few houses that hadn’t been claimed by the desert. Although the main living space had caved in, the rest of it was relatively well-preserved.

They were in the bathroom now, where a beautiful underwater mural had originally been painted on the tiles. It was faded now. The mermaids and coral had lost their color, and many of the tiles were cracked or had fallen to the floor—but Dorian and Varric would work to restore it eventually. For now, they simply cleared away the layers of sand and debris. The area had already been mapped and marked off with a grid. Now they were simply clearing it; taking samples and looking for any signs of change or irregularity in the sand. It wasn’t the most glamorous job, but it kept them out of the hot, afternoon sun at least.

“Hmm.” Varric made a low, thoughtful noise in the back of his throat as he thought the question over. He carefully placed a piece of broken pottery one of his bags, marked with the proper grid coordinates.

“Well, sparkler. Do you ever think about the people who will dig up our modern cities? Eventually, everything becomes ancient. You’ve just gotta give it time. I guess some people build monuments to be remembered, but most of us just want to get by.”

Dorian drew his finger across one dusty tile. “For all the good it does them now. Certainly, we know the names of Fairel and his sons, and we’re working to uncover their great thaig, but… what good does that do them? They’re no longer alive to enjoy the infamy.”

He cleared his throat. Varric fell silent, and Dorian suddenly felt the nerves tug at his stomach. Perhaps he didn’t feel the same way as Dorian did. He was an author after all, and a famous one at that. He must have enjoyed public acclaim on some level, at least.

When the silence between them grew to an uncomfortable size, Varric finally spoke.

“Maybe it’s like the fear of death. People are afraid of things they can’t control. Being remembered gives ‘em peace of mind, I guess.” He ran his thumb across the tile he was holding and looked up at Dorian thoughtfully. “Do you stop existing when you die, or when people stop remembering you?”

Dorian hadn’t thought of it that way, but the dwarf had a good point. He was about to say as much when someone called for them.

“Pavus, Tethras! Come out here and see this.” Lavellan’s voice echoed through the ruins with a tone of authority that left no room for objection.

“Well. We’d better go take a look.” Dorian raised an eyebrow at Varric, but set the tile he had been working on down and stood up. He dusted the debris off his trousers and held out a hand to help the dwarf up before they made their way out of the house, careful not to disturb the gridded area.

They were greeted with a strange sight indeed. It seemed like the whole expedition was standing outside, crowded around the base of one of the massive statues that was in the ruins. People were muttering and talking among themselves, but Dorian couldn’t hear what they were saying. He couldn’t quite see what was going on either, so he pressed forward to get a better look.

As he pushed through the crowd, Dorian discovered what the ruckus was about. Sitting at the base of the statue was the Iron Bull. He seemed to be injured, if the way he was cradling his arm was any indication. A wooden shield sat forgotten on the ground next to him. His lieutenant stood beside him as well, holding a shield of his own and looking concerned. That wasn’t what intrigued Dorian the most, however. What intrigued him was just behind the two mercenaries. Where there had once been a solid statue base carved out of stone, a gaping hole now stood. It was hard to see inside, but it was clear to Dorian that the statue was not quite so solid as he had initially assumed.

He moved to stand beside Lavellan, who was staring into the shadowy opening.

“What in the name of Andraste happened here?” he asked. The elf turned to look at him, a gleam in her eyes.

“Dorian! I think we’ve found another section of the ruins.”

He nodded. “Yes, I can see that. At the expense of that poor statue, it seems.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, already imagining the flak they were going to get for damaging it. “How did this happen? I don’t suppose you just went around, knocking on everything you could find?”

Lavellan shook her head and gestured toward Bull with a jerk of her thumb. He was still sitting at the base of the structure. One of the other mercenaries was tending to his arm now, although they simply seemed to be splinting it. Not a magic healer then.

“We got lucky,” Lavellan said. “Well, not so much with the statue. It’s a lost cause now.”

For someone who was supposed to be the head of an archaeological expedition, she didn’t much seem to mourn the loss of the statue. In fact, there was a gleam in Lavellan’s eyes. If Dorian didn’t know better, he would say she looked thrilled.

Dorian tried not to appear as confused as he felt. “If you’re lucky, why haven’t you gone in to check yet? We have plenty of torches and mercenaries.”

Lavellan gave him a knowing smile. “We went in, but there seems to be some sort of magical barrier blocking the way in. I was actually hoping you'd take a look at it.”

“Of course. But first, let me take care of something.”

Dorian didn’t want to be presumptuous, but it couldn’t hurt to offer to help his injured fellow.

A splint would take ages to help heal a broken bone. Dorian was no trained healer, but he knew a few tricks that might help. He stood in front of Bull, but the Qunari continued on talking to his lieutenant and did not turn to look at the mage. Feeling awkward standing silently by Bull, and not wanting to prolong the experience, Dorian cleared his throat.

Both men stopped mid-conversation and turned to look at him. Well.

“Ahem. I don’t suppose I could take a look at that?” Dorian pointed to Bull’s arm. He could feel his cheeks burning, and not just from the desert heat. Luckily, Bull nodded.

“Sure! Take a crack at it.” he paused, raising his one good eyebrow. “Well. Don’t _actually_ take a crack at it.”

And there was that laugh again, the warm one that tugged at some strange feeling in Dorian's chest. He placed a hand on Bull’s injured shoulder and tested it by gently moving the arm in his socket until Bull winced.

“Does that hurt?”

A nod.

“Alright. I have good news: your shoulder isn’t dislocated.”

Bull laughed. “That’s the good news?”

Dorian couldn’t help but laugh with him, despite the circumstances. He could feel the energy running through Bull’s body. It was off, as with any injury or illness. Not quite a broken bone. Perhaps a fracture, or a muscle stretched beyond capacity. He was never great with telling these sorts of injuries apart through magical means.

Dorian braced one hand on Bull's back and the other on his injured elbow.

“You may feel a burning sensation, but let me know immediately if it starts to hurt.”

“Maybe I’ll just stick with the—“ Bull started, before he was cut off by Dorian's magically-aided efforts.

The whole thing felt warm and familiar, like putting on an old, careworn winter cloak. Using healing magic always seemed to mess with Dorian's senses. His vision blurred and his ears felt filled with cotton. So, he could feel, rather than hear, Bull’s sharp gasp and shudder as his bones started to mend. It drained Dorian to practice this unfamiliar magic, but it was worth it when he finally pulled back and saw the stark look of relief on the mercenary’s face. The Qunari rolled his shoulder and groaned.

“Oh, that’s better.” Bull tested his arm out—flexing his muscles and wiggling his big fingers. He turned to Dorian with a grin. “Thanks. Feels good as new.”

"Of course. Anyt-”

Krem cut Dorian off, elbowing Bull in his side.

“Wow, boss. You never even let Dalish use her magic on you.” Dorian had almost forgotten about Krem, who had been sitting on the other side of them.

Bull shrugged before bracing his hands on his knees and pushing up to stand.

“Dalish isn’t a mage, Krem puff. Or did you forget?”

Apparently he didn’t have much to say to that. He let Bull and Dorian return to the broken open thaig entrance with no further objections, just a sly, knowing smirk sent in Bull’s direction. Dorian led the way back, with him following close behind.

“I’ve brought company. I figured there might be some other security if they bothered to put up a barrier.”

Lavellan was marking down notes on a map when they returned, but she looked up as soon as she heard Dorian coming.

“Ahh. Yes, that’s probably for the best. Do you need anything before you investigate?”

 “No. I have my staff and bag. We're just going to check out the barrier, not take a week's trip through the Deep Roads.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “If you say so.”

The further in they ventured, the colder the air grew. It served as a nice contrast to the sweltering heat of the desert. Dorian was surprised to find the barrier wasn’t nearly as ancient as the ruins. That was curious. Of course, it also meant that Dorian didn’t have the benefit of it growing weak from time.

He sighed and felt out the air around it. It was a strong spell, cast by a capable mage. This was not the work of an unlearned apostate, but a true craftsman. Still, Dorian had broken stronger.

He closed his eyes and went to work unweaving the very fabric of the barrier. It was a delicate mental process, although he imagined it didn’t look very impressive from the outside. His hands started to glow as he grew close. Dorian felt something strange overtake him as the barrier broke. It shattered unexpectedly—sending Dorian, Bull, and Lavellan flying back in a burst of shattered rock and light. Something smacked him on the back of the head, debris or the like, and the light quickly faded into darkness.


End file.
